


The Unassailable Advantages Of Being Dead

by ImpossibleElement



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Declarations Of Love, Halloween, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5116376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpossibleElement/pseuds/ImpossibleElement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grave-risen Sherlock misplaces an important part of himself, but gains something even better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unassailable Advantages Of Being Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Have a happy halloween.
> 
> Let me know if you liked it.

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=sw75ec)

###  ** The Unassailable Advantages Of Being Dead  **

 

 

 

John was not going to like this.

He was not going to like this one bit. In fact, he was going to dislike this so much that the detective was sure he would kill him if he weren’t already dead.

He was walking through the graveyard; anxiously dragging his slightly torn coat over the grass, digging with his fingers the suspicious dirt which could very well hide what he was desperately looking for. He had found himself wrapped up in a similar scenario twice before, and that was only this month. If he did not wish to repeat the reaction it seemed to raise from John, he needed to track his misplaced dismembered limb again. Before John had to know about it.

He appeared to have lost his left arm after he took it off in order to adequately be able to fit into a narrow clue-ridden grave. Now that he had solved the case brilliantly, and had managed to get himself out of the hole with impressive dexterity for someone heaving himself up single-handedly, he couldn’t find said arm. 

Lately, he had grown too accustomed to carelessly detaching his extremities or internal organs when they became too bothersome to work, or when he needed them for an experiment, or when he was bored. In hindsight, he appeared to have made a habit of it, and his friend was always going on about how it was very irresponsible of him to do such thing, or some similar lark. 

After several fruitless and frustrating moments of searching, he gave up the pretence of doing this on his own and decided to text Lestrade and inquire about it. The detective inspector had found some of his body parts before, maybe he would prove to be more efficient at tracking misplaced detective pieces than he usually was at apprehending criminals. In addition, he refused to give in and call his best friend, who he knew would spend around seventy four minutes lecturing him about the need of “proper transport safety measures” as he liked to called them, which the boffin would promptly relabel into the category of _Boring_ ; even if they came out of his dear flatmate.

 

 

> _[Sent] Fri 2:14am._
> 
> _“Have you, by any chance, come across a left arm about my size lately? -SH”_

 

He quickly typed and restlessly waited for a response that could not come fast enough. The full moon was high in the sky, and it was only a matter of time before John would start to wonder why he was not at the flat yet.

His phone chimed twice, the first message made him sigh in relief. It read: 

 

> _[Received] Fri 2:27am._
> 
> _“Found it twenty minutes ago”_

 

However, once the detective read the second, all his hopes came plummeting fast to the earth. The tiny pixels mocking him on the imminent chastisement on his near future. 

 

  

> _[Recieved] Fri 2:28am._
> 
> _“John’s on his way to get it.”_  

 

Well, damn.

That was not the most brilliant idea. He cursed Lestrade for being too used to John’s and his own behaviour to deduce that the doctor would appreciate being notified of this accidental misplacement, knowing that otherwise, the curly-haired man would not see fit to inform him. It was probably in his best interest to return to the flat as soon as physically possible, lest John would have more time to simmer in his wrath. And he did not wish to come back to an angry friend --no matter how fascinating a sight it was-- not tonight. He would prefer if he could tell him about the murder and maybe relax together for a time.

Resigning himself to a night of screaming matches, he gathered his things and hailed a cab back to his home, hoping to be able to persuade his blogger not to permanently murder his half-dead self. 

When Sherlock arrived to the front door of 221B, he saw the light inside through the window. That meant the blonde had already come back from retrieving his previously lost limb; he took a deep breath, and crossed the threshold. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock came shuffling into the flat, a paradoxical mixture of arrogant and sheepish that only he could pull off. With a petulant pout gracing his mouth as it always did when he knew what he did was wrong but did not want to concede. Which should not be as adorable to John as it was. 

He took the time to slowly unwrap his scarf from his neck and delicately shrug off his coat and hang it. The doctor observed in annoyance and slight amusement how his friend was clearly trying to delay the confrontation as much as possible; John decided to end his torture now.

“Sherlock,” He called, watching from the armchair how the other’s eyes widen slightly at the shameless ignorance of the conventional flux of events. His friendgulped and ran his negligibly decomposed hand through his curls in nervousness.

“John, before you say anything-” He started, obviously trying to talk or lie his way out of the row he was likely to obtain after doing this for the third time this month. Honestly, how can someone so brilliant could not see the peril in leaving his exposed limbs and organs lying about everywhere was beyond him.

“Shut up.” He said before the other could finish. Because he was done with this scene,this time his flatmate was going to listen to him even if he had to tie him to the armchair. Surprisingly, Sherlock did nothing more than to look on in defiance; he didn’t retaliate, and he certainly did not complain, so the blogger thought it would be a good idea to try and get his point across now that he had Sherlock’s attention. 

“Sherlock, taking off your limbs and putting them in the freezer for me to find as a part of an experiment, I can understand.” Honestly, he could. He may not like it, and he clearly had something wrong in the brain if he actually found it rather endearing at times. At least he stopped minding it so much the moment he _risen_ and became a living corpse himself. “But you should never do that anywhere outside the flat.” He stated calmly, tired of yelling to the other for the same reason each week. The same constant attempt to make him comprehend the risk of his careless actions. No matter how much he loved the stupid madman, he was not going to give in about this, it was too important.

“People don’t just go around taking their arms off.” As soon as he said it, John noticed the dubious look Sherlock gave him as if saying: _since when am I ‘people’?_ Choosinginstead another route of impact, he said. “Just because you can do it, doesn’t mean you should.” He stood up from his seat and strolled to the kitchen to fetch a warm cup of tea, while the other still hovered over at the door.

“What would have happened if you really couldn’t find it this time? Or worse, if someone took it?” He was seriously hoping some of these questions would take a hold on the consulting detective. To at least make him think twice before running off without one of his parts next time. “What then?” He challenged. The other did not answer. Obviously. There was not a single smart course of action that could be taken if that were to occur. It would be a total helpless, shameful endeavour. 

After a few moments, the blonde decided he had probably done all the good he could that night, so he just sighed and replied. “Exactly. Now, come here so I can reattach this.” He said waving the loose left arm and gesturing for his friend to sit in the kitchen chair.

The other walked slowly to the seat and flopped himself down sulkily. John took the arm and started inserting the the needle through the flesh. “You are not going to yell at me?” Sherlock asked truthfully, and the soldier could hear the slightly surprised edge the words had laced through them, as if he was really shocked that he was not planning of having another row with him about this.

“Not this time,” He answered, feeling completely emotionally drained by the worry he always had over the most important person in his life. “Just-” 

“Ouch.” The detective yelped as a particularly sharp tip graced his inside flesh; even if the sensibility was diminished by their new states of biology, it still hurt if some cuts were too deep. “Sorry.” His friend replied and soothed the area with his finger a bit, revelling in the proximity with his flatmate. Remembering the importance of what he was saying before he got sidetracked, he continued. “Don’t do it again.” 

That got a raise out of the silver-eyed man, prompting him to stand up. “But it was imperative to the case, John!” The doctor pinned a needle to his shoulder a bit rougher than necessarily to get him to sit down once more. “Ouch” Sherlock said again, but did indeed take his seat. “What’s the use in being able to reattach them if I’m not allowed to do it to prove something important.” He asked arrogantly.

“Just be careful.” The other insisted. “I don’t want you losing body parts just because you don’t care enough to keep track of them.” He said as he pushed the needle inside again.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Scoffed Sherlock playfully, inclining his head forward so John had better grasp on his shoulder.

“I could tell you the same thing.” The blonde returned, with more affection than was warranted by the situation at hand. He desperately loved this half-alive human being in front of him, and could not bear to lose him, not even a tiny piece of him. “You need to take better care of your body.” He stated, which was met with a bored sigh from the other. “I know you find it tedious, but it’s very important for me that you are safe.” John declared, and the other raised his head to look him in the eyes. A moment passed, stretching the staring into an uncharted territory; however, Sherlock seemed convinced of the validity of the other’s request and nodded his head to assent. 

Changing the subject to a lighter, less dangerous tone, the soldier asked, “So, did you solve the case?”

“Yes, I did.” Sherlock replied smugly. He appeared very happy by the decision of steering the conversation into The Work and preened at being asked about something he found very important, John couldn’t help but chuckle a bit when he saw his friend’s spine straighten at the mere opportunity to show off. “And?” He prompted, attempting to rid himself of the mystery.

“It was the brother, obviously.” The dramatic flair was there, John was amazed he could still see it even after having died once. “I knew he had risen, but for some reason the family believed he would have told them if he had.” He elaborated, obliviously looking over the reason why anyone would assume their loved one would at least notify them of their return from the temporary grave. “Idiots.” He added as an almost automatic afterthought.

“Brilliant.” John said as he patted the newly reinstated arm to signal he was finished, and the smile gracing Sherlock’s face was worth all and any trouble it had been.

A few hours later, while John was writing up the last case and Sherlock lounged about in the sofa, making un-living life seem like a classy and elegant endeavour, the bloody graceful git, it was then that the blogger decided to bring up the subject of the following day. “I’m making dinner for tomorrow.” He announced, while the other raised his head and looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

“What’s tomorrow?” He asked, looking for all the world as if he was confused by the mere sentence that left his mouth. Or of course, he would if Sherlock Holmes actually had the ability of being confused by anything.

“Halloween.” Explained the undead doctor. He watched Sherlock roll his eyes at it and scoffed as if that were the most terrible idea anyone had ever thought in the history of humanity. “I don’t get it, you used to love it before we died.” Watching the lithe, slightly greenish body rise itself from the sofa and walk around to the mirror.

“Yes, because it was a free pass day where everything was permitted. No clothes too crazy, and no person too weird. Plus, it made for the most original and interesting crimes.”He said, already buzzing with excitement at the prospect of an hypothetical murder. He sure was a nutter, his Sherlock. “But then the world changed, and ever since I followed you to the grave and we both _rose_ ,” He commented, averting the questioning eyes of his flatmate. Knowing that John had suspected for a while that Sherlock had not told him the truth of his demise. Shrugging aside the issue and resuming his explanation. “Watching kids run around with zombie costumes and asking for candy seems...” His now fully functioning left arm picked up the sugar skull from the mantle and brought it up as if the contemplation of his next words where akin to a Shakespearian existential dilemma. “Oddly offensive.” He concluded truthfully.

That caught the assistant to consulting detective a bit off guard. “Since when do you get offended?” He asked.

“I don’t. It just took all the fascination out of it.” The genius flopped himself into his armchair and tucked his freezing toes underneath John’s warm thigh, not that he minded, of course.

“Well, I’m still making us dinner, and I promise I will make it not-boring.” He assured. And boy, it was definitely going to be very far from boring if he could pull off what he had planned. The words: _‘What’s the use in being able to reattach them if I’m not allowed to do it to prove something important.’_ ringing loudly in his ears. This was more than important, this was indispensable. Their feelings for each other had gotten to a point where trying to conceal them any longer was not only pointless, but it was also unnecessary. He would not risk it if he weren’t sure. And John knew he had never been more sure of anything in his life and ‘afterlife’ alike. 

 

* * *

 

 

The next night, when Sherlock stepped out of his room dressed in his best suit, as the doctor had requested, his reanimated heart beat faster at what he saw. The kitchen table was free of experiments --those carefully labeled and stored away at the top shelf-- and arranged perfectly, with a dozen of beautiful _Tagetes erecta_ in the middle; two plates of frankly delicious-looking italian brains in Mrs. Hudson’s best china. And in one of the chairs, one impossibly more deliciously-looking army doctor with the blue suit on and a satisfied smile on his face. “Happy Halloween.” He said. The younger man felt as if he had died and _risen_ all over again form excitement and uncertainty. 

He went to sit in his designated chair opposite to John’s. The soldier’s grin was amplified. “Well, let’s eat!” He said cheerfully, and for once Sherlock did as he was told and started devouring the meal his best friend had cooked just for him. They engaged in light conversation, and the usual banter made itself present once or twice; but once their stomachs were full and the food had been cleared away, the real event was about to take place, Sherlock could see it. He may not know exactly what the doctor had in store, but he was nervous enough to have it written plainly all over himself.

John stood up and went to retrieve a box. ‘ _Middle size, carton of approximately 280 grs, wrapped over this morning, but bought way before that, properly balanced and no loose pieces shuffling around inside, important to warrant a special occasion, relevant enough to initiate planning a few weeks ago, but dangerous enough to had not been determined to risk it until the last second, meant for me’_ his brain supplied. He understood what this box could mean, but that was the problematic with his blogger: he was highly unpredictable at best, always surprising him, so he won’t be able to really know what’s inside until he opens it.

Yet, all those deductions about the box would fall unnecessary if you were but to watch the look on his flatmate’s face. Sherlock recognised that look immediately. It was the expression the blonde got when he was steeling his inner soldier for a challenge, which meant only one thing: John was about to do something brave.

“I actually want to give you something. You obviously don’t have to keep it, or even accept it if you don’t want to,” The blonde babbled nervously, extending the box with his arm for the other to take it. “But I hope you will.” He finished with a hopeful smile as Sherlock tore through the wrapping excitedly.

However, what he found there gave him pause. It was a heart, an actual human heart, beating loudly inside its confinements. A quick glance to his friend and recalling the memory of noticing him mysteriously wincing in pain at the muscle movement whenever his chest moved since the night began, confirmed the detective’s hypothesis. This was John’s heart.

“I decided it was time you had it,” John seemed to had been talking while the other came to his conclusion. “Officially, I mean. It’s been yours for many years now.” He continued anxiously and apprehensively, as if any word or movement could shatter both their worlds.

Sherlock’s chest felt constricting, his palms were sweating and he felt tears gather at the corner of his eyes, the emotional attack rendering him speechless while his flatmate persisted with his onslaught of declarations. “I know I’m being terribly cheesy, and you’ll probably hate that but I-” He was interrupted when at last, the brunette found his voice. 

“You said you disliked it when I took out my organs.” He said, startling the older man. It was the only thing his mouth appeared able to produce, even if he had a thousand other more important things to say at the moment. His curious brain focussing on the least dangerous and more practical subject it could find.

“Yes,” He answered, looking dazed. “But I needed to prove something important.” He insisted, trying to draw attention to the fact that he had literally laid out his heart for this man. Getting more scared by the second.

“John,” Sherlock uttered with devotion, as if his very name was a mix between a prayer and deliberation. Perplexed at the enormity of what his best friend was offering for him. “You have to get this back inside your chest. Now.” He concluded, taking the heart out of the box and offering it back.

“Oh?” The soldier’s metaphorical heart plummeted by the implications of said sentence. “No, I get it,” He said, grabbing the discordant thing. “It was probably too much.” He was clearly trying not to let the rejection get to him. How could he be so wrong?

“I don’t mean it like that.” Sherlock, seeing the broken look on his love’s face, quickly amended, willing the other to just see the importance of what he’d done. He had just been given his heart’s greatest desire, he was allowed a moment of stupidity trying to catch up to the fact that it was actually happening. “John, I’ve been in love with you since forever, but you need this.” He confessed, and once the words were out he felt their presence warm the shorter man’s undead face; giving it a look of relief.

“This is your best asset.” He insisted, running his fingertips delicately at the surface of the blonde’s heart between them. “I don’t need to physically have it in my hands to know you posses one, John. I’ve always known.” The tears were flowing freely now. He should be ashamed, but he couldn’t find it in himself to actually care. All he could think about was that John loved him back, a revelation so pure and perfect that still had him reeling. “I need it in there, beating and pumping blood and morally guiding both yours and my actions, and making you _feel_.” He ended, reaching out his left arm to touch the other’s chest.

John placed his heart on the box again, and when he turned around his face changed from guarded to crazed with desire in three milliseconds before he grabbed the madman’s neck and pulled him down to a passionate kiss. Making him bewildered for the second time that night.

Moments passed, and they had to pull apart to breathe. “We should really get the organ inside your ribcage, John.” The brunette insisted, a bit worried of leaving it out there, exposed. He supposed his flatmate was right about the menace it could become. “Very irresponsible of you.” He joked, making his best friend and soon-to-be boyfriend laugh loudly.

“I don’t care.” Said man replied. “We’ll do it after.” He grinned and reached out to smash their lips together again.

Curiosity won the better of him and Sherlock just had to ask. “After what?” He inquired innocently, and then found his corpse being deftly hauled up bridal style, by strong, reanimated arms.

“After showing my half-dead best friend how he makes me feel so alive.” John answered, and left the severed organ resting on that table vulnerably for a few hours.

**Author's Note:**

> In case it was confusing: John and Sherlock live in a world were a recent phenomenon causes corpses to some times come back to life, very much like zombies. These beings conserve their previous personalities and lives, and live as official, fully-functioning citizens of society.
> 
> The reason John and Sherlock are part of what the world calls 'The risen' is because John dies shot by a criminal while defending Sherlock, and the detective, trapped in grief and worry of the small chances John has of coming back to life, accidentally overdoses. John does not know about this, and thinks Sherlock had a natural heart attack in reaction to sedatives. John 'rises' two days after his death to the news that Sherlock also passed away (conversation that left an unwarranted black eye on Mycroft), and has to wait for his best friend's return a day later.
> 
> If you liked it, check out my other stories.


End file.
